'There's a man dyin' here,' said David Brower, in a low tone. 'Ye needn't rub no more.
'He's dead,' Elizabeth whispered, holding his hand tenderly, and looking into his half-closed eyes. Then for a moment she covered her own with her handkerchief, while David, in a low, calm tone, that showed the depth of his feeling, told us what to do.
Uncle Eb and I watched that night, while Tip Taylor drove away to town. The body lay in the parlour and we sat by the stove in the room adjoining. In a half-whisper we talked of the sad event of the day.
'Never oughter gone out a day like this,' said Uncle Eb. 'Don' take much t' freeze an ol' man.'
'Got to thinking of what happened yesterday and forgot the cold,' I said.
'Bad day t' be absent-minded,' whispered Uncle Eb, as he rose and tiptoed to the window and peered through the frosty panes. 'May o' got faint er sumthin'. Ol' hoss brought 'im right here—been here s' often with 'in'.'
He took the lantern and went out a moment. The door creaked upon its frosty hinges when he opened it.
'Thirty below zero,' he whispered as he came in. 'Win's gone down a leetle bit, mebbe.'
Uncanny noises broke in upon the stillness of the old house. Its timbers, racked in the mighty grip of the cold, creaked and settled. Sometimes there came a sharp, breaking sound, like the crack of bones.
'If any man oughter go t' Heaven, he had,' said Uncle Eb, as he drew on his boots.